


Come Alive

by bolero



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Blood Drinking, Bloodplay, Chemistry, M/M, Sensory Overload, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-26
Updated: 2010-08-26
Packaged: 2017-10-11 06:36:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/109522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bolero/pseuds/bolero
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As if he were dropped there, a man appeared in the middle of the deserted road, crouched low on his heels and hands, staring up at Pete like an animal caught in headlights. Pete remembered his piercingly white eyes, and then all went black.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Come Alive

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from "Night Drive" by Jimmy Eat World.

Pete Wentz was always beautiful in his own way. The dark, almond-shaped eyes that looked lined even when they weren't and the glossy, jet-black hair were the topic of many girls' gossiping when he was in college, much to the chagrin of his actual boyfriend, who would just roll his eyes when Pete would launch into stories about the outlandish ways girls would go out of their way to try and flirt with him. Everything from draping themselves "drunkenly" across him at parties or the sudden surge of fan attendance the soccer team saw when he joined his second year. Everything was going pretty well for Pete, up until the end of his fourth year.

Pete would refer to it as his "accident" whenever he talked about it. It had started out that way – Pete was in his car, going alone to a show one night in May, driving far too fast for the country highway he was on. As if he were dropped there, a man appeared in the middle of the deserted road, crouched low on his heels and hands, staring up at Pete like an animal caught in headlights. Pete remembered his piercingly white eyes, and then all went black.

When he had come to, Pete's car was on its side in the dirt and grass shoulder of the highway, down a small embankment and out of sight. He awoke in darkness, his head pounding, chest feeling tight, skin prickly with glass from the shattered windshield, but otherwise unhurt. He fumbled to wiggle his toes and fingers, realized he still had feeling in them, and swore out loud in both pain as well as disbelief that he was even still alive. Pete groped at his seat belt, trying to get it off from the weird angle he was in, and managed to climb out through the shattered driver's side window.

As he tumbled out, he fell upon the grass, clutching at his rib cage with one hand. He coughed harshly, struggled to fill his lungs with warm night air in panicked gulps, trying not to look directly at his ruined car and think of the monumental amount of trouble and debt he was going to be in. When he felt a pinch in his chest after a particularly deep breath, he wisely decided to call the paramedics to take a look at him.

Just as Pete was trying to roll on his side to dig his cell phone out of his side pocket, he heard a faint hissing noise. Immediately he glanced at his useless car, equating the sound to a tire losing air or something losing pressure under the hood. When he heard the noise again, he realized it was coming from behind him.

The man that had jumped into the road and caused Pete to swerve was slowly walking towards him, his boots making scraping noises against the loose gravel on the asphalt. Pete craned his neck to look. He didn't know if it was a sixth sense or what possessed him to think it, but he knew this guy was definitely not coming to make sure he was okay.

Still, he called out feebly, "Uh, I'm okay, thanks… Just calling the ambulance right now…" Pete's shaking hand tried to reach behind him to get the phone, feeling his torso tighten where the seatbelt had undoubtedly cracked one of his ribs.

The man grew closer, his footsteps still slow and methodical, as if he had to put much effort into walking straight. But his wide, milky-white eyes never left Pete's; he stared intently, almost through him, his mouth slightly open. Pete glanced down and saw a pair of sharp teeth peeking from behind his lips.

Frozen with shock, Pete had only time to mutter, "What are you?" before the vampire leaped, and for the second time that night, all went black.

-

It was 48 hours before Pete turned up again, dirty and disheveled, on his boyfriend's doorstep. Patrick Stump opened the door, looking just as a wreck as Pete was, clad in rumpled pajamas and his strawberry blonde hair messily poking from beneath a black beanie. His eyes, red and puffy, widened at the sight of Pete.

He stepped barefoot onto his stoop, opening the blanket that was wrapped around him and throwing himself at Pete, who held Patrick tight against him. Pete buried his nose in his hair, reveling in his newly-heightened sense of smell, and positively swimming in the sweet apple scent of his shampoo. He could feel Patrick's body shaking with silent cries, and every heart beat beneath Patrick's skin; could hear Patrick's muffled voice saying they'd found his car and he was nowhere, how the police had seen the huge puddle of blood in the grass, and how worried they'd been that he'd wandered off in the woods to die somewhere and never be found again. He pressed his mouth to Patrick's cheeks and lips, softly and quickly, trying to drink him in. And his skin; even his skin tasted different now. It was peppermint mocha against his mouth, salty tears and spring flowers, cherry-flavored Chapstick to soothe his windburned lips and his, his, his, all his.

It had never been a question to hide what he now was from Patrick. He knew he would tell him everything, from the accident to after, waking up in the forest hungrier than he's ever been in his entire life. He would tell him about the heightened senses, the bloodlust, the animals he killed, and hope against hope that Patrick would still be with him after he was done talking. They would have to work at this, together, if Patrick wanted to. So as he pulled back and petted Patrick's soft hair, smudged away the tears falling fast and hot from both his and Patrick's eyes, his first words were simple and serious.

"I have something to tell you."

-

Pete was unsure at first how everything worked with his new burdens. While he enjoyed the heightened senses in some aspects – particularly smell; being in the apartment while Patrick took a shower with the bathroom door open was like dying and going to heaven – that was about the only plus he could come up with. The negatives were obvious. Food was bland to him now, though not completely disgusting, and only blood from anything living even remotely quenched his hunger. He still slept, though not much, so there wasn't really any change there. Crosses and garlic – that stuff was for the movies. And he didn't know who the man was who'd changed him into the vampire he now was… or if there were any more like him in Chicago.

Patrick had asked a lot of questions Pete didn't have answers for. So he'd just shrugged, and clasped Pete's hand against his, promising he would help him figure out their new and complicated life together.

A student at the University of Chicago Medical Center pharmaceutical program, Patrick was already advanced at chemistry and biology, easily scoring top marks in AP exams and entrance tests, to be placed in second-year classes as a freshman. He'd tried recipe after recipe mixing chemicals with various blood compounds to thicken them, dilute them, increase their potency, or even create mock blood to see if it had the same quenching components as real blood.

Pete test-ran all of Patrick's batches, one being the most successful at multiplying the red blood cells so that less animal blood could be used to make a large amount of what Pete jokingly referred to as his "fruit punch," allowing their stock to be more plentiful.

But after a year, they both could see that Pete's thirst seemed to be gaining strength again. Patrick had hypothesized that Pete was building immunity to the punch, and tried new compounds every night after class. One particular night, Patrick had passed him a pitcher of his latest concoction, and after Pete took a big swig, spit out the mouthful and slammed the glass beaker into the ground.

Roaring obscenities, which were somewhat drowned out by the shattering of the glass, Pete angrily wiped a hand across his mouth. Patrick flinched, and stared in disbelief as Pete turned and stalked out of the kitchen, down the hall to their bedroom, and slammed the door.

Taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly, Patrick stepped gingerly over the glass to retrieve the broom and mop, and set to work.

A few minutes later, Patrick edged down the hall. He gingerly opened their bedroom door, just a margin, so that a beam of yellow light from the hall flooded into the darkened room. Pete was sitting on their bed, hood up, head in his hands. His leg was tapping nervously, a silent beat in his own mind playing in time to the beat of Patrick's nervous heart, which he could hear from across the room.

"That's the fifth one this week that I haven't even been able to get down," he observed quietly, his voice thick, as though he were talking around a lump in his throat. And Patrick knew this was more than just impatience, it was fear that Pete held in his hands every night. Fear that he might never get his condition under control and what that would mean for them.

Patrick crossed the room, came up to sit next to Pete, and opened his arms to him. Pete leaned in without a word, and Patrick rubbed small circles into his tense back.

"We'll work it out, Pete," Patrick offered; the best he could do.

His face pressed into the soft denim of Patrick's jacket, he wanted to believe him. Pete's hands grabbed at Patrick's back, holding on so tight that Patrick worriedly pulled Pete to arm's length. "Hey," he said softly, pulling down his hood and brushing aside Pete's bangs that hung in his dark eyes, "We'll work it out," he repeated.

Pete gazed up into Patrick's caring eyes, looking much younger than he really was, like a small boy who'd just skinned his knee and wanted it kissed by his mother. Still lightly stroking his face with the back of his knuckles, Patrick and Pete began to edge together simultaneously and very slowly. They'd only been this close a few times since Pete had had his accident, and even though they slept in the same bed there was little physical contact above Pete clutching to Patrick every night.

Patrick's lips were close to Pete's, and he felt him hesitate.

"This is okay," Patrick whispered, his words dusting Pete's cheek, his other hand tightening against Pete's arm. "I trust you."

Pete stared down at Patrick's pink lips, the smell of spearmint and coffee filling his lungs, and thought of the blood pulsing beneath the soft skin. It would only be once, he vowed, just this once and not again for a very, very long time. It had been so long…

"Please, Pete…"

Oh, fuck. Because when Patrick had that begging voice, especially in that deep whisper, Pete's heart would flutter in complete adoration. Pete's hands slid up to hold Patrick's warm face, and he pressed his lips against him. Patrick's heart raced in his jugular against Pete's hands, beating a frantic rhythm, and in a daring move, Patrick slid into Pete's lap and opened his mouth.

Pete returned Patrick's insistent kisses, high on the elation of this feeling he'd gone so long without, his hands pulling at Patrick's neck to bring him closer, closer, almost inside him now with how badly he wanted to be near him. Patrick's hand slid down to Pete's waist, deftly reached for the button on his jeans, and then everything happened very fast.

Pete felt the teeth in his mouth begin to grow, felt his incisors expanding slowly, felt his lips part, just as Patrick had broken to get a better look at what his hands were doing. Pete threw his head back in agony and used what little willpower he could find to careen backwards against the headboard.

Quickly, he covered his mouth and shut his eyes, willing them to turn back to brown from the milky white he knew they were. In the confusion, Patrick had lost his balance, and fallen off the bed, hitting the ground with a soft thud.

"Jesus Christ, Pete! What are you – "

His eyes looked up to see Pete doubled over, lips and eyes shut tight, and he understood. He heard Pete's staggered breathing, eventually slowing to normal. Pete looked up, eyes and teeth normal again.

"We shouldn't have done that," he said, trying to catch his breath, and watched Patrick stand up and fold his arms. "I just got taken by surprise."

"I just, I mean…" Patrick stammered, frustrated, angry, fed up, all kinds of emotions running wild through him. "What are we doing together if we can't even be together, Pete?" he sounded flustered, trying to compile all his thoughts into one coherent string. "I want to try and make this work, I've always wanted to try and make this work and it just feels like you don't. Do you even still love me?"

His words sounded more accusatory than he meant them to be. A year of pent-up sexual desire added a mountain of stress on Patrick, not to mention put the occasional edge in his voice when he got annoyed.

"I have dreams about being with you every single night," Pete answered quietly, after a long pause, not looking him in the eye. "Being with you like we used to be able to."

Patrick stayed silent; fidgeted with the buttons on his jean jacket.

"God, Patrick, of course I still love you. You don't even know how much I wish this shit never happened to me, just so I could know without a doubt that I'd never hurt you," Pete confessed, touching Patrick's elbow. "But you saw how I flipped out before. I'm not taking any chances on what might happen, it's just too dangerous."

Patrick remembered a time when he'd first attempted making Pete's "fruit punch." He'd been chopping something against a plastic cutting board and spaced, nicking his finger with a short but deep cut from his blade. He'd cried out, and hurried to the bathroom for a bandage, when Pete came home. Not realizing he'd dripped a trail of blood along the hardwood floor, Pete followed it into the tiny bathroom.

Patrick's heart jumped in a way he'd never felt before when Pete appeared in the doorway, eyes wide and frosted over, breathing erratic and deep. It took ten minutes of talking him down for Pete to retreat to their bedroom, so Patrick could hurriedly wipe up and disinfect all traces of his blood, and cover his finger with a thick, airtight bandage.

Pete had felt so guilty that he'd ran out, not returning for two days.

Patrick remembered this, but it wasn't about just Pete's dangerous bloodlust anymore. It was about his own lust; his own primal desires. He knew what would set Pete off, and how to calm him down. He'd been thinking about this inevitable night for months. He wasn't sure, but subconsciously, he thought he may have been planning it all along, since that night that Pete turned up on his doorstep after his accident.

Patrick took a small paring knife from the dresser drawer, and considered it in the dim room. He slowly rolled up the jacket sleeve on his left arm. Pete didn't have to be a genius to understand what would come next.

"Patrick, don't do this!" He pleaded angrily, not sure how he would react if Patrick's blood were to spill. But Patrick was quicker, and Pete only had a moment to see him bite his lip and flash the blade against the underside of his arm.

Pete jumped back against the headboard, turned his head from the sight, tried his best to close all senses. But it was no use. The scent filled his nostrils and suddenly he was taking in deep breaths of it, his stomach rumbling in pure, unadulterated desire. He reached blindly for the glass bottle of cologne Patrick kept on top of the bedside table and smashed it to the floor, hoping foolishly that the scent would mask everything.

"It's okay…" Patrick trailed off, as he ran a few fingers across his bleeding forearm. The blood smeared across the porcelain skin and Pete's nose twitched; it was making the smell that more potent. Slowly, Patrick eased across the room to sit at the opposite end of the bed, near the foot. Patrick reached out his hand, fingertips red with fresh blood, and beckoned Pete.

His fangs out, he was at his side in an instant. Patrick flinched just for a moment, before turning to face him. Both were trembling in fear and anticipation, facing each other on Patrick's bed. He looked up at Pete, his eyes silvery gray and swimming, somewhere between their normal coal black and the snow white they turned when Pete was overcome. His chest was rising and falling steady and deep, using every atom inside of him to control himself. Silently, Patrick snaked one hand around Pete's skull, threading through the hair at the nape of his neck, and pushed his bloody fingers past Pete's lips and into his mouth.

Nothing could have been more sensual at that moment to Pete. His eyes closed and rolled back in his head, and before he knew what he was doing, his tongue was pulsing against Patrick's fingers, blood long cleaned off but wishing for more. It was caramel sauce, hot on a sundae at the Chicago city street fair when he was six years old.

Patrick gently removed his hand, quickly swiping it against the cut again, and held it up in front of Pete's hugely dilated eyes. He opened his mouth wordlessly, and Patrick pressed his fingers onto Pete's pink tongue, the scarlet blood spreading over it, watching in rapture as his mouth closed around them. He sucked on Patrick's fingers, tasting sharp peppermint discs, flooding his brain stem with memories of Christmases and after-dinner candies in little restaurant dishes.

Patrick slid his fingers back and forth, relishing the sounds Pete made against them, then finally all the way out, listening intently as they made a wet noise when they passed over Pete's lips. He hiked up his sleeve further, and used his other hand to guide Pete's head down to the site where the skin had been cut open on his arm.

Pete began to panic inwardly; shook his head violently and started to push Patrick away. What if he started and couldn't stop? He would kill Patrick in no time. Unable to even speak, he pulled his head away gently from Patrick's grip, just to have him put his hand back around his neck again.

"I trust you, Pete," he repeated. "Trust yourself."

Pete froze, the smell of Patrick's blood, of his breath and his words making his tongue water in his mouth.

"You need this…" Patrick whispered against his ear, "I need this…"

Pete felt himself shiver, let himself be guided down, and Patrick quickly pulled off his jacket entirely and stretched out underneath him. Pete climbed over, straddling Patrick's hips, and held his arm in his hands. He slowly lowered his head, easing his tongue out, and licked a long stripe of blood off the underside of Patrick's forearm.

Oh, fuck. The taste was nothing like he'd ever had before. It was a mouthful of chocolate cupcake, vanilla icing oozing between his teeth and coating the roof of his mouth. He pressed a wet kiss at the inside of Patrick's elbow, felt Patrick's heart beating fast against his lips, licked another stripe up to his wrist. "Oh fuck, 'Trick, so good," he murmured against his soft skin. He could come right here and now if he didn't know it was about to get so much better.

Patrick let out a soft moan, let his other hand clench against Pete's thigh. Pete cleaned off Patrick's arm like a cat, and located the actual small incision, which had stopped bleeding. He gently put it down at Patrick's side and leaned over him, to press his full lips against Patrick's.

Patrick swiped his tongue around Pete's mouth, tasting the odd metallic tang of his own blood, and felt Pete's long incisors bump against his short teeth softly. Without skipping a beat, he drew down the zipper on Pete's jacket, pulling it off, and running his warm hands up around Pete's cool lower back.

Pete drew back immediately, hands pressed against Patrick's chest. "Patrick, I don't think going this far is such a – "

Patrick paid no mind, sitting up to pull of his own shirt and tugging off Pete's as he was talking. He cut him off with, "Do you honestly think we're going to stop now?" Patrick rolled his eyes, pulling Pete back down on top of him, their skin-on-skin contact feeling like it felt so long ago, before everything had changed. Patrick sighed happily into their kiss, Pete's hands nervous against Patrick's determined ones.

Patrick rubbed against Pete's thighs reassuringly, cooing words of encouragement in his ear, as Pete shakingly pressed a line of kisses down Patrick's chest, being mindful to avoid his neck. He reached his belly button and licked a wet circle there, Patrick eliciting a soft moan and running his hands in Pete's hair. "Fuck, Pete," he sighed, pushing his head back against his pillow, "Been dreaming about this, too…"

Pete felt his head swim, hearing the noises erupting from Patrick's throat, and willed himself to take deep breaths – in through the nose, out through the mouth. He ran his hands up Patrick's ribs, kissed and licked a line up his arm to his shoulder where he hesitated, not wanting to go near the neck and its pulsating veins.

Patrick looked up, staring deep into Pete's silver eyes. He rubbed a soft spot on his left shoulder, towards the end of his collarbone. "Here, Pete," he whispered, "Do it here."

Pete knew what Patrick was thinking; knew his curiosity ran deep of what it felt like to be attacked and devoured, and wanting, even a little bit, to feel what it might be like to be damaged by Pete Wentz. Pete was adamant in his denial, even scoffing as he leaned back off of Patrick, pulling out of his grip. "You're crazy."

Patrick considered the irony of that statement for just a moment, then wordlessly pulled Pete back down over him, kissing him full force as though his life depended on it. His mouth occupied, Patrick's hands reached again for the button on Pete's jeans, loosening them. Pete broke away, breathing hard, and Patrick arched his back up, digging his hips into Pete's roughly.

"Just fucking do it, Pete," Patrick pleaded, his hands flailing and grabbing wildly at Pete's arms, literally overcome with the feeling raging inside him. "I can't take this anymore."

Pete felt his stomach turn in worry, but simultaneously felt his primal needs ebbing against the rational side of his brain. He gripped at Patrick's arm, digging his fingers into the flesh, and stared, wide-eyed down below him. He opened his mouth, let out a loud hiss, and pressed it against Patrick's shoulder.

There was a moment of ecstasy for Patrick as he felt Pete's mouth working on his shoulder, then the most indescribably painful sharp puncture, as he felt two hot points on his skin break into holes. He let out a sharp gasp of agony, choking back screams, and felt tears spring to his eyes without warning. Patrick's back arched in pain; Pete was hunched over him, one hand holding at Patrick's elbow and the other kneading soft circles into his ribs.

Pete used all his strength to not go in all the way, to make the puncture wounds fairly shallow, and to drink slowly, to savor this moment. God only knows when Patrick was going to let him do this again – if ever – and he wanted to remember what this felt like for a long time. Because holy shit, it felt fucking incredible. Pete couldn't remember ever feeling this alive since his accident. By this time, Patrick had grown used to the feeling, and gripped handfuls of Pete's silky hair as he drank, and moaning out loud in sheer pleasure. After a few minutes had passed, Pete surprised himself by how easy it was to slow his incessant gulping, to lick the wounds shut and clean, and end by pressing soft kisses against Patrick's shoulder. Patrick reached a dazed hand up to Pete's head and pulled him into his neck, murmuring softly, "Kiss me here."

Pete hesitated at first; he could hear the tendons stretching in Patrick's neck, tight and full of tension from being craned back. But Patrick's gentle hands threaded through his hair again and his bright green eyes said it was okay, and Pete nuzzled into the soft skin there, feeling it vibrate when Patrick sighed happily again. He pressed his full mouth up against the underside of Patrick's jaw, trailing it down to suck small marks into the snowy white skin. Patrick glided his hands up and down Pete's tattooed arms, loving everything about this man and embracing this new part of him that he'd needed to see for himself. He felt Pete sigh against his neck, climb off of him and snuggle up against his side.

Patrick put an arm around Pete, pulling him closer to his body. Pete's head fell to Patrick's chest, and he felt his teeth shrinking back, his eyes clearing from their hazy glow. He felt full, satiated, not just in his stomach but in his heart. He reached for Patrick's hand across his torso, and laced their fingers together softly.

As happy as he was, Patrick let the future wander into his mind as they laid there silently, coming off their respective highs. He idly twitched his shoulder where the puncture wounds were sore with newness. There's no way they could do this that frequently, or Patrick would keel over and die from the blood loss. But he had an idea.

"I think I know what new ingredient I can put in the fruit punch," Patrick said. Pete looked up at him hopefully.

He had a lot more testing to do.


End file.
